


Unregarded

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Mrs. Hudson, M/M, Mrs Hudson's history, the kaffeeklatsch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs Hudson is sometimes overlooked. She is often underestimated. She is not always respected.</p><p>Mrs Hudson and the boys of Baker Street have several ways of addressing this shocking lack of consideration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unregarded

Mrs Hudson was in a bit of a mood when she bustled in that morning to bring in the post, do a quick sweep of the fridge and check whether her boys were over that strange fractious period from last week.

Sherlock was on the sofa reading the contents of a manila folder. John was lying along the sofa, feet in Sherlock’s lap, reading another. From time to time, Sherlock was absent-mindedly squeezing John’s feet, right in the arch, and John would make a little grunt of pleasure at the haphazard massage.

Good. The first marital squabble was over, then.

It didn’t improve Mrs Hudson’s mood.

“For heaven’s sake,” snapped Sherlock, slapping the folder down across John’s shins, making John slap down his folder in startlement as well, “What on earth is the matter with you, Mrs Hudson?”

Mrs Hudson met his glare with one of her own. “You could at least throw out the ears once you’ve done with them!”

“I’m not done with the ears,” he said tartly.

“I am,” she replied with even more acidity, “I’ve had them up to here. All your mess and your noise and your Bad Mood Violin Playing and your Worse Mood Violin Playing and your-your-your _ears_ and nobody appreciates what I have to put up with and half the time nobody even believes it!”

Then she stood there at the edge of the kitchen, hands on hips, breathing heavily and her eyes bright and furious. She wasn’t even looking at them anymore but down through the floor, gaze boring a hole right down to her own living room. John had started to rise in concern but Sherlock looked like he’d seen the light.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, “Your kaffeeklatsch.”

John’s brow furrowed as he took in Mrs Hudson’s expression, shifting from outrage to hurt.

“They don’t believe a word I say about the two of you,” she complained, “As if I could make such things up. As if I didn’t have worse things than _ears_ to contend with before I even moved back to London.”

“You have led a rather colourful life,” Sherlock observed drily.

“Yes, well, I don’t talk about that,” she replied swiftly.

Sherlock blinked slowly and rose. “Speaking of which,” he said, “John and I need to discuss those things you don’t talk about rather urgently.”

Mrs Hudson’s eyes widened. “What on earth for?”

“Insurance,” he said.

At her startled look, John added, “For you, not for us.”

“Oh. Well, if you think we must.”

“We must,” conceded Sherlock, not looking happy about it. He exchanged a look with John, who nodded, then walked across the carpet to kiss Mrs Hudson on the cheek.

“Don‘t worry,” said John, “We’ll make sure you’re all right.”

“Of course you will, dear,” agreed Mrs Hudson with blind confidence.

John filled the kettle to make tea while Sherlock gathered up the abandoned folders. He sat with Mrs Hudson at the table and placed one of the folders in front of her. He flipped it open to an old photograph of her – young and vibrant, dressed in a very brief and very spangly outfit. Behind it was a sheaf of other pictures, news clippings and documents.

Clipped on top of the photograph was a simple postcard of a Florida coastline. Sherlock slid it out from under the paperclip and turned it over. The postcard, bearing a US stamp and recent postmark, read in plain block letters:

THE FLORIDA SUNBIRD FLEW AWAY FOR THE WINTER  
BUT WINTER HAS A LONG MEMORY. PAYBACK IS COMING  

Mrs Hudson pressed her fingers to her lips in shock, then turned wide eyes to Sherlock. She reached towards him.

Sherlock folded his fingers around hers.

“I intercepted this last week. You must tell me everything,” he said.

John placed the cup of strong tea in front of her, and took her other hand.

“Trust us,” said John. “Please.”

*

The first of the Stitch and Bitch group (as it was informally known) arrived at 11am. Mrs Roth, bearing crudités and homemade French Onion dip, photos of the latest grandchild and enough wool to knit booties until the next millennium, it seemed.

Martha Hudson greeted her at the door, ferried the nibbles into the kitchen and waved Mrs Roth through as the doorbell rang again. Mrs Carroll came in, balancing a plate of little triangle sandwiches, a bottle of wine and a bag full of half-completed tapestries she’d picked up at an op shop. Next came Mrs Turner, with her Famous Quiches (Mrs Hudson thought Mrs Turner was putting on airs a bit, calling them Famous, but she grudgingly admitted they were good). Finally, Mrs Aitkensen arrived, bearing cupcakes and the hand beaded bodice she was working on for her late husband’s brother’s son’s boyfriend’s sister’s wedding.

Before everyone got truly settled in the living room, there was another ring at the bell. Mrs Hudson opened the door and John Watson bowled in, shut the door, and began to speak in an urgent, low tone.

“Mrs H, I’m sorry about this, I wouldn’t bother you only…” He looked meaningfully upwards, indicating the floor above, “We have a little… trouble. Sherlock and I need you to…” He pressed a small notebook into her hands and glanced around – then suddenly noticed the gathering of women in Mrs Hudson’s living room, most of whom had an excellent view of the goings on through the archway. “Oh.”

“Never mind about them, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, taking the notebook from him and tucking it into the pocket of her cardigan, “You just come and get it back when you need it.”

“Oh. Good. Thanks.” John kissed her on the cheek and took off again, swinging the door shut heavily behind him.

“Was that…?” began Mrs Roth.

“Oh, that’s only Dr Watson. Don’t mind him. Tea?”

Tea was poured and some biscuits were handed around and the Stitch and Bitchers made a start on both sewing projects and catching up. Mrs Hudson took out a knitting project of her own – a new scarf for her sister, as it happened – and traded stories about weddings and nephews for a little while.

Ten minutes later there came from upstairs some crashing noises, two or three heavy thumps, a muffled voice shouting “JOHN!” and another yelling “GET YOUR DAMNED HANDS OFF MY HUSBAND!” then some more thumping, before things fell silent.

Mrs Hudson kept knitting and, when Mrs Turner looked at her, eyebrow raised, Mrs Hudson only shook her head and smiled. “Oh, pay no attention,” she said, “I only really worry if I hear gunshots or smell something burning.”

Another ten minutes later, Mrs Carroll had a bit of a turn when she was refreshing the pot of tea and Sherlock Holmes climbed in through the kitchen window. She gave a sharp squeak of fright.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed over the top of the squeaky woman. Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. “Mrs Hudson! Ah!”

“What now, Sherlock?” Her exasperation was beginning to show. She glanced at Mrs Carroll, standing frozen by the kettle. “Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Sherlock.” Then back to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow as he finished dragging himself into the room.

“If someone follows me through the window, hit him on the head with a frying pan,” Sherlock instructed her as he straightened up his Belstaff and flipped up his collar. “Unless it's John,” he amended. “Do not hit my husband with a frying pan. I need him exactly like he is.” 

“Should I expect someone else through the window?” Mrs Hudson asked in some alarm.

“No. Well. Probably not. That is...” He tilted his head to listen to a renewed commotion upstairs, “Not any more. It sounds like John has other plans.”

Sherlock stalked into the living room. His gaze raked over those present, then he saw the plate of quiches. His eyebrows shot up in delighted approval and he scooped one up and jammed it into his mouth whole as he turned a graceful, rapid circle.

“Is John all right, dear?” Mrs Hudson prompted as she and a slightly stunned Mrs Carroll followed him into the main room.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said, leaning gawkishly backwards to take a look towards the front entrance, “He’s showing them the door.”

There was a cry, a hard thump, a series of more muffled thumps, and then cursing from the foyer, full of deeply ugly language.

“Oh, really. That’s hardly necessary,” fussed Mrs Hudson.

“Best that can be expected from those that live on 33rd, I imagine,” said Sherlock, glancing around the room first then striding to the door.

He flung it open to find a very angry man limping aggressively towards him. “I’ll take the notebooks, you sly motherfucking sonofa…”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Cockroach alert, Mrs Hudson. Time to get the Raid,” he said sardonically as he half turned out of the oncoming thug’s path.

The man lunged and clamped hands around Sherlock’s throat, and they both went down right in the entrance to the living room – where all sewing and tea sipping and eating of quiches and cake had come to a standstill.

The next thing, a compact whirlwind made of woolly jumper and rage barrelled in after them.

John Watson grabbed the thug by the lapels. The thug let go of Sherlock with one hand long enough to punch John in the diaphragm before returning to his throttling. “Tell me where you put 'em, you bastard.”

John was wheezing for breath. Sherlock was wheezing for breath. Mrs Roth was applying her Ventolin to ease her own wheezing of breath and the other three just watched with wide eyes and, in the case of Mrs Aitkensen, a level of excitement and appreciation normally only seen in Baker Street.

It was at this point Mrs Hudson reappeared from a brief sojourn to the kitchen, hefted up her best cast iron skillet and hit the thug a bruising blow right between the shoulder blades. He howled and let go of Sherlock, turning to attack Mrs Hudson who, having dealt with these things from time to time, picked up the nearest cup of hot tea and threw it in his face.

He did a bit more howling, and a bit more after that as John flung himself at the man, pushed him to the ground and sat on his spine.

“Move and I’ll break your collarbone, you twat,” he snarled, before twisting to see how Sherlock was doing. “You okay, sweetpea?”

Sherlock had dusted himself off and was rearranging his coat. “Fine,” he said, a bit croakily. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Are you?”

“Never better.” John got to his feet and hauled the miscreant up by the back of his shirt. “Mrs Hudson?” he asked solicitously.

“Oh, I’m fine dear. It’ll be a job to get the tea stain out of the carpet.”

“Send Mycroft the bill,” he muttered.

Sherlock, who had finished reassembling himself, stood in front of their aggressive intruder and tilted his head to examine him more closely. “If you attempt to harm either my husband or my landlady ever again,” he said grimly, “I will send you back in pieces.”

“Bastard,” snarled the thug. He gasped and winced as John shook him fiercely by the collar, choking him briefly.

John then frogmarched the fellow right out of Mrs Hudson’s flat and onto the street, flinging him to the path with considerably more force than necessary. “And you tell Harvey Beckers that the notebook is no longer in Baker Street.”

“But…” began the man.

John slammed the door in his face and stalked back to Mrs Hudson’s flat, where he made a great and grumpy show of checking Sherlock’s neck and throat for bruising.

“I’d already got rid of it, you numpty,” he was saying gruffly, “Why the hell did you climb out the bloody window?”

“The second notebook,” said Sherlock, fishing one that was identical to the one John had so recently given to Mrs Hudson, “Without which the first cannot be deciphered.” With that, he held out an imperious hand and Mrs Hudson, grinning impishly, fished it out of her cardigan and slapped into his palm.

“You, Mrs Hudson, are a treasure,” he declared. He kissed her cheek, then carressed John's jaw and kissed his cheek too. “As are you. Now. Upstairs to decipher these and send the results to Mycroft.

Sherlock slipped the notebooks back into this pocket, whirled, picked up the entire plate of mini quiches, and he and John swept from the room.

Mrs Hudson sighed as they went. She patted down her hair, smoothed down her dress and turned to the kaffeeklatsch. “Well. That’s that, then. Anyone for another cup of tea?”

In the kitchen, refreshing the pot, Mrs Hudson smiled happily to herself. That would be the last time Mrs Bloody Famous Quiches Turner would suggest that life at Baker Street wasn’t everything that Mrs Hudson said it was.

*

Later in the evening, when the Stitch and Bitch group had parted company for the evening, Mrs Hudson took a casserole and some extra scones upstairs to 221b.

Sherlock’s throat was nastily bruised and John, wearing surgical gloves, was rubbing cream into the purpling marks.

“Oh Sherlock, dear,” she said, distressed, “That was going beyond the call of duty.”

Sherlock opened an eye to look at her. “We weren’t play-acting,” he said darkly, “He really wanted those notebooks.”

John put the Hirudoid cream down and peeled off the latex gloves. He took the plate of scones from the top of the casserole dish and offered one to his husband.

“Little bites,” he said, “It’ll hurt to swallow.”

“Thank you, I have been throttled before, John,” said Sherlock coolly, and then at the look on John’s face, half irritation, half horror, he leaned forward and took a small bite from the scone John held in his hands.

John’s expression mellowed and he pushed the hair back from Sherlock’s forehead. It flopped right back into place, but John didn’t seem to mind. He held the scone while Sherlock took a second, smaller bite and then kissed Sherlock on the forehead. Sherlock sighed and relaxed into the chair.

Mrs Hudson, he noticed, was still staring at them. “Do you mean that was a real criminal I hit with my frying pan?”

“Criminal might be putting it a little strongly,” said Sherlock, “Though I must say he took to assault like a duck to water. Not bad work for a secretary to a member of parliament.”

“Oh.” Mrs Hudson frowned. Then she nodded. “And the other thing?”

“Mrs Aitkensen,” said Sherlock, “Everyone else looked puzzled when I used the Florida slang.” He glanced over at John. “The references to living on 33rd and Raid, quite common Floridian vernacular.” Then back to Mrs Hudson. “Aitkensen smiled, as though she got the joke. And of course there was the conversation she was having with…” he waved his hand…”The one with the green reading glasses, about the _frosting_ on the cupcakes, instead of _icing._ She has obviously lived in Florida at some time.”

Mrs Hudson scowled. “She never said.”

“No. Well. I assume she recognised you and remembered a few things about that vile husband of yours, before arranging a postcard to be sent from your old stomping grounds.”

John rose quickly to help Mrs Hudson, who had gone a little pale, to the seat.

Once seated, however, her lips tightened in an angry line.

“And you think she’s the one who has been in touch with this… this Milverton. About my past.”

“There’s very little doubt about it. I think she was just fishing with the postcard though. Trying to get a rise out of you. See how fruitful you might be as a victim.”

“Hmm.” Mrs Hudson’s scowl deepened. “Well. Louise Aitkensen and Mr Milverton can both take a long walk in an alligator infested swamp and I hope they choke the monsters in there.”

Mrs Hudson raised her chin in defiance and looked at her boys with a fierce gaze. “I have enough contacts from the old days, and I’ve kept track of everyone who bore a grudge. Everyone who cared enough to want me dead is dead too, now. Milverton can say what he likes to whomever he likes. I am 75 years old. He can’t possibly do anything that would matter to me in the slightest. I was an exotic dancer. Who cares? Has he even seen Miley Cyrus and that awful wrecking ball video? My husband was in the mafia, and we saw him off, didn’t we Sherlock? I did a little bookkeeping for the cover businesses. That wasn’t against the law. And if he makes a fuss, well, I have friends, and I have you, and I will _not_ be threatened by some…some grubby little blackmailer.”

She nodded once, sharply, as if that settled _that_. “Sherlock. John. Do what you need to do to stop that terrible man.”

John patted her hand. “Are you sure?”

“OF course I’m sure.”

“Mrs Hudson has never wanted for courage in a tight spot,” said Sherlock, and his tone was full of admiration.

Mrs Hudson smiled coyly at the compliment.

Sherlock kissed her cheek again. “We will protect you.”

“Oh nonsense,” said Mrs Hudson, “Protect John and protect yourself. I have a frying pan.”

After she had gone home, John sat on the sofa, Sherlock cradled in his arms. He kissed Sherlock’s hair and stroked Sherlock’s chest and belly almost absent mindedly as he stared at the other folder.

“Nothing on Greg or Molly, then?” he asked.

“Perhaps third or fourth hand through their own pressure points,” said Sherlock, eyes closed and enjoying John’s gentle hands, “Nothing direct.”

“Just Harry, then.”

“For now.”

“Right.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John’s face. “We’ll find a way,” he said softly.

“We will,” agreed John, though he didn’t sound so confident now. He sighed. "Harry’s not as brave as Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock patted John’s hands. He wanted to say that perhaps John underestimated his sister, who was also, after all, a Watson, but that was nothing but a platitude. Who knew what Harriet Watson might or might not have the strength for?

John sighed and dropped his gaze to meet Sherlock’s. “At least I know who I’m not voting for next election.”

“The Right Honourable Arse Harvey Beckers.”

“And his secret stash of bribes from Calais.” John stroked light fingers over the pale skin above Sherlock’s bruised throat. “If I ever see that tosser of a secretary  again I’m going to thrash him for touching you.”

“If it helps, I suspect that between the frying pan and the force with which he met the footpath, he’ll be requiring physiotherapy for his bad back for the next few years.”

“Good.” John bent to kiss Sherlock’s forehead.

“Please,” whispered Sherlock, “Say something sw…”

“Sweetling,” said John softly, “Lemon drop. My little beetle. _Love, love me do; you know I love you_ …”

Sherlock closed his eyes again and let himself relax as John sang to him.

Mrs Hudson had responded well to the news that a blackmailer might try to harm her as a way of getting to them. More than well. Outraged and fiercely protective and with the same surprising calm she had displayed when he had first met her in Florida, trying to escape from that wretched, controlling, murdering swine of a husband of hers. That was one door closed on Milverton.

It wasn’t nearly enough. But it was a start.

 


End file.
